When Life Throws You Lemons...Make Tequila Sunrises

FOUND
by Josephine Lovell

2006
I was sitting opening up my e-mail just like any other day. The junk mail section is scanned just to make sure there is nothing of importance. Then my eyes hit upon something that I recognized immediately. My heart stopped still and I could hardly breathe. The title said it all. I would be the only person who would understand that message. It would have no meaning for anyone else. That was the point though: to catch my attention completely; to not accidentally erase in a foul swoop of the delete button.
“Leroy James Lovell, December 22, 1972”
That’s all it said. That’s all that was needed. I knew he had finally found me.

1972
“Damn! This was not supposed to happen” I told the doctor sitting before me. “I can’t go through with this.”
The news of my pregnancy was a shock. I had just gotten over having hepatitis after a bad needle in the hospital from having my tonsils removed. I had thought my morning sickness was still from the effects of the recovery process of hepatitis (they say it takes over a year to recover fully). Now, at the age of twenty, I was told that I was eleven weeks pregnant.
Suddenly the room became stifling, my heart rate increased and I felt faint. This was not the effect of the pregnancy: this was the realization of what my mother was going to say!
Fortunately, she took it in her usual stride of forgiveness and practicality of, now what. My twin sister, Geraldine, was ecstatic. She already had a one-year old and was looking forward to him having a playmate in the family. My older and younger sisters accepted, as sisters do.
“Don’t tell Geraldine you’re thinking of giving the baby up for adoption” Mum warned me.
“She needs to know. I don’t want you to go through what she has put you through with her child. It’s not fair on you, Mum” I rebutted.
“I know, but I really don’t mind. Little Crispian is my grandson and I couldn’t leave him to your sister’s thoughtless acts. Not that she would hurt him, but he needs more than she is willing to give up.”
“Precisely, Mum” I interjected, “I won’t put you through it for a second time.”
“I doubt that you would. You’re not like Geraldine. You may be twins, but you’re so different. She won’t understand your reasons. She’ll fight you all the way, you know how she is, and she’ll not stop until she’s driven you to the wall. Her view is the right one and nothing anyone else says counts. Don’t tell her.”
The decision to keep the baby or adopt was foremost in my mind, and I had to make a decision soon. I had watched my twin dump her child on to our mother to baby sit while she went off with her boyfriend to the movies or the local pub every weekend. Mum didn’t have a life. I saw how our mum would spend what little money she had on baby clothes, food and toys when my sister was spending money on enjoyment. Mum hadn’t bought a new dress in ages. I heard the arguments Mum had with Geraldine over these things and of my twin’s responsibilities she was shunning off onto our mum. I heard my mum’s heartache and sadness when my sister yelled at her for not helping out when she wanted to go out yet again and Mum refusing and then giving in because the baby would end up suffering. Mum hadn’t been out to enjoy herself for so long. What if I did the same thoughtless things? What if I ended up hurting my mother like that? I knew mum felt I wouldn’t, but the ‘what ifs’ kept smothering me. Abusing mum was something I was not prepared to even contemplate doing. Count one for adoption.
I had been living at home after our father decided to leave my mum in peace from his ramblings with other women. They had separated and my mum had bought a small four-bedroom cottage in Manly, Australia. I had settled down from a couple of wild years on my free-living life of a hippy. Living back at home with Mum and my sisters was sobering and, I guess, good for me. I was working back in engineering once more and had begun to get used to the routines of a mundane life. Three months (or close enough) ago I had bumped into an old party buddy, and … well you know the story: one too many drinks, some cool magic mushrooms and a bit of needed flattery was all it took to get me in the sack. Three months later I was deciding what to do with an unwanted pregnancy. Ian had offered to marry me. Hell, no! We were old buddies nothing more. I still don’t know why we ended up where we did (maybe the mix of drugs, sex and rock ‘n’ roll had something to do with it). So count two for adoption.

2006
I could not bring my shaking hand to open that letter. I just stared in amazement at the name and date. I was terrified and excited at the same time. I felt paralyzed, mesmerized, and drawn completely out of my own body. I wanted my hand to click it open and yet my body didn’t belong to me just yet. Slowly I was able to get control of myself and opened the mail.
“Yes. Yes, thank God! It is my son” I sighed as I read the first few lines. Strangely enough, I remember thinking how good a writer he is; how well written the sentences were and how thoughtful their structure was. I could tell that he had spent a long time in composing this letter. It had to be perfect. It had to be just right the first time. There might not be another chance. My heart flew to him and what this must have taken to put on paper. Awesome, miraculous, I kept thinking to myself.

Dear Josephine,
Writing this e-mail is one of the hardest things I have done in my life to date, but also one I have wished and hoped I was able to for a long time. Having spent many years on and off searching for my birth mother I have (hopefully) found her/you!Now I don't know how you will react to this but I deeply hope you have maybe one day been expecting such a letter and that you are overjoyed. But also it will be a big emotional roller coaster as I know how I would feel if the shoe was on the other foot. I wasn't sure as what to put in the title and still working on it as I would hate you to have thought it was a junk email but I think it is appropriate as I have just thought of it.I think life is too short not to have taken the time to track you down and write this email as am aware that your father has only just passed away 3 years ago and I hope you will reply sooner than later as I look forward to checking my inbox on a daily basis for your reply or phone call.

After reading, I ran to my son, Francisco, whom I had given birth to thirteen years after giving up Leroy, to tell him the fabulous news. We had had no secrets between us, so he knew about my other son. Francisco understood my reasons and had never judged me for my decision to give Leroy up. He never judged me for keeping him and I as a single parent family all these years either. I so missed my first son and knew that one day becoming a mother would have the right time. At thirty-three I felt ready to be a mum and with the body’s clock ticking, I decided to get pregnant. I was not looking to be a wife, just be a mother. Francisco brought all that I had expected and so much more. He was now ready to welcome a half brother into his life.
The letter had given my son’s adopted name as Daniel Lambert and left a phone number to call if I wished to. I immediately grabbed the phone and dialed. I had no idea what to say and didn’t worry about it. I wanted only to let him know that I wanted to know him and that it was the most wonderful letter I had ever received in my life.
“Hello?” a very sleepy female voice answered the call.
“Hello. Is Daniel there?”
“Yes, just a minute. Who’s calling?”
“This is Josephine from Arizona” I answered breathlessly waiting for his voice.
“Hello?” another very sleepy male voice croaked from the earpiece. “Do you know that it is 4:30 in the morning?”
Oh my God! I had been so excited in calling that I had not even thought about the time difference in phoning Australia. I apologized profusely and said I would call back later. The voice agreed. The connection was broken. What an idiot I had been. I was now shaking with emotion. The adrenalin wouldn’t stop pumping and now it had turned from excitement to panic. What if he didn’t want to talk to me after waking him up?

1972
My waters broke; the waiting was over. It was December 22. They whisked me to the delivery room and within minutes they placed a mask over my face to put me out. I struggled at first, but soon everything disappeared to oblivion. The next thing I remembered was waking up in the maternity ward and no pot belly. I called a nurse to ask about my baby and why I had been knocked out for the delivery. I was told that because I had decided to have the baby adopted I was not allowed to see the child at any time, so the delivery was done by forceps and the baby taken without my knowledge. I was told it is the only way these things could be done. She told me she could not answer anything to do with the baby. I was sickened to my stomach but understood their reasons. The emotional turmoil of giving birth to a child you have carried around for nine months would be tipped to an unbearable level if you were able to see, touch or hold the baby, but surely just knowing some news would have been okay? They wouldn’t even tell me the baby’s sex and if it was healthy. I never asked again. I hid my head under the blankets and refused to talk to any of the other mothers. I felt so ashamed.
The mothers were torture for me. Their babies would be brought in for their feeding every now and then. Each mother held and cooed at their child. They talked, laughed and clucked at each other’s children. I hid myself deeper inside the covers and tried to block out their happy voices. However, they didn’t come close to the tortures my twin sister inflicted on me on a daily basis. She was so upset about not having a playmate for her son and also felt that people who gave up their children were despicable.
Geraldine was a nurse and happened to work at the hospital. She had access to all the wards at any time and once she found out that I had decided on the adoption, war was declared on me. She would come in on her breaks, before work started and after work ended. She would tease me cruelly with words that cut my heart and soul to shreds. She told me that my baby was a boy and that he was the only child who cried. She would say that he cried so much because he knew that his mother didn’t want him; that his mother didn’t love him or care about him. My soul screamed in agony and my heart broke down.
After four days I could not take any more torture. She won and I lost the battle. She said that she was quitting her job to stay home and look after her son so one more would not hurt. She had an answer to all my excuses. I could not fight her in my fragile emotional state. I gave in and within minutes my baby was in my arms. What a blessing he was. Love was overwhelming.

2006
My emotions were overwhelming, but I didn’t dare call back. I decided to wait to hear from him. I sent him my phone number in an e-mail, so the nail-biting began. He called a few hours later. To tell the truth I hardly remember what was said in the twenty minutes we spoke. It was so dream-like, so unreal, so wonderful. I remember his voice. How musical it sounded – a deep rich tone with a broad twang of the Aussie accent upturning the last syllable of his sentences. He laughed at how American I sounded. His laugh was as rich as his baritone voice. He pulled at my heart strings as I floated somewhere between the floor and the ceiling of my dining room.
We hung up with promises to call again and write. We spoke often over the next few weeks and wrote several times, sending pictures. I only had two photos of Daniel: both were from the day we came home from the hospital. He was tall and slim with a head of thin dark brown hair and large chocolate eyes that twinkled from a beautiful olive skinned face. However, what struck everyone who saw him were his hands. They were so elegantly long. I thought that maybe he would be a pianist. I was so grateful that Daniel sent me photos of when he was still a baby and others of when he was growing up. Nothing could fill the void, but this sure helped in picturing him for real instead of trying to imagine what he was like. I had thought about it a million times over the years: wondering what he looked like, how tall, how handsome. I often wondered if I would recognize him if he sat opposite me on a bus or passed me on a street. I was always scared that I would not.

1973
I soon fell into a routine: take Leroy to my sister’s, drive to the city to work the day, return to pick Leroy up and then home. But something was not right. I could feel the tension each time I went to pick Leroy up. Her boyfriend, Lenny, would be drunk or close to it and started to complain that there was not enough money now that Geraldine was no longer working at the hospital. He blamed me and Leroy. I was afraid he would hurt my baby.
I decided that things were not going the correct way and that I had made a mistake in keeping Leroy. I knew that I was not prepared emotionally to handle the tremendous responsibilities of motherhood on top of being single. I had my own dreams and so would Leroy and how were either of us going to accomplish them if I could not handle the enormous psychological and emotional traumas that life threw at us on a daily basis? I was immature and not ready to do this. It was not fair on this innocent life to start him off with my troubling life. I couldn’t subject him to my lack of strength. He needed a mature commitment, not one that lacked direction, in order to give him the best in life, to give him the best chance to get through life, to give him what every child deserves: stability as well as love. I was not lacking in love – that was given freely, abundantly and willingly. Stability was my concern. I could not promise that at any stage of his life. He deserved better. He deserved that chance. I decided to look into the process of adoption.
I have blocked out so much of the next steps to his adoption. These weeks have been erased as too traumatic for my mind to cope with. When I told my family of my final decision to give Leroy up, I was virtually thrown out. Nobody spoke to me and when anyone did, it was to throw insults at me.
“You don’t love him” my sisters told me.
“You don’t understand me. It is because I love him so much that I am doing this.”
But nobody listened to me and nobody helped me through my pain and sorrow. They loved him almost as much as I did and could not contemplate giving him up now. I know they didn’t really mean to be nasty to me, but I needed their understanding and support not their pain and anger.
The day finally came: March 7, 1973 at the Child Welfare Department in Crows Nest, Sydney. I took him in his crib along with his toys and clothes. I was interviewed for hours. They needed to know absolutely everything about my family, my grandparents, the father’s family and his grandparents. Descriptions of physical traits and a history of health had to be painstakingly recorded. I don’t know how I got through those hours. They told me that if they could get as much history of the family backgrounds then finding a ‘match’ for the baby would be easier. They try to place them with a family that has similar traits and coloring. The only thing I asked them was to promise me that he would be placed in a foster home until an adoption was decided on and not in an orphanage. He had been used to us as his family. I couldn’t bear to think of him as one of many waiting for the right family to come along. They promised. I left the place in a daze.
I got in my little Mini Cooper (the original Morris ones) and began my drive back to the house in Manly. I could not think clearly. I hated myself. I was so angry and frightened. I cried uncontrollably. I wasn’t driving fast. I could hardly see where I was going much of the time. Part of the journey home winds up a mountain and is pretty hairy at night on some of the ninety-degree bends. One of those bends was especially dangerous and had been nicknamed ‘dead man’s curve’ because so many had gone over the edge and plunged to their deaths in the gully below. Nobody had ever survived the fall. I now came along that stretch towards dead man’s curve. I have no idea why I felt a peculiar need to study the tree-line ahead of me, but I saw the bend where the road just disappeared and the horizon was full of green-grey gum trees that loomed silently on all sides. They seemed to close in on me. They did not judge my actions. They did not yell at me for doing the dreadful thing I had just done. They felt inviting, felt understanding. I wanted to stop the feeling of hatred I felt for myself, I wanted to cease the disgust I had for my actions, I wanted to die. And here the trees were inviting me to come to them, to end it with their strength. I knew in an instant that I would die here if I could drive my car over the edge and I would be at peace – a penance would be paid for giving my child away.

2006
Daniel called one morning and asked me if it would be alright if he could come visit me and Francisco. Are you kidding?
“My dad is going to give me my ticket. He said that I deserve to meet you in person seeing as though it has taken so long to find you,” Daniel explained. “After the private detective we hired found your address he told me that if you were willing to meet me we’d find a way.”
“I can’t wait to meet you. Please thank your dad for me” was all I could think to say. My numbing mind was in mayhem. Daniel would come for two months at the end of May. He told me he would like to see the Grand Canyon, and Universal Studios. Anything else was up to me.
“You can relax and I will cook for you” he told me. “I am a chef.”

1973
The dark grey road stretched on before being lost to the trees waiting about two hundred yards in front of me. I knew the road curved to the right. The beige earth of the cutaway mountain side rose on my right following the road. That too disappeared up ahead. To my left I could almost see down the sides of the gully, but the trees blocked the view to the bottom. The bush was thick and lush as it was natural forest land so no development had penetrated this far. Ideal for a suicide as car wrecks were only found by the occasional hiker who happened to stumble upon a wreck; that is if nobody saw the car topple over from above or burst into flames to draw attention with the billowing smoke.
I pressed my foot to the accelerator and jammed it to the floor. Immediately the car flew forward rapidly. I stiffened my arms straight out and squeezed the wheel with both hands tightly. The car could only go straight forward. The car would have to go over the edge once the road turned the corner. I closed my wet eyes and prayed to end it quickly.
To this day, I do not know why I am still alive. I should have died off that lonely stretch of mountainside. When I opened my eyes, my hands were still gripping the steering wheel tightly and my foot was still pressed firmly on the floor over the accelerator pedal. However, the engine was silent and dust was everywhere. I began to cough. I could not see where I was as I could not see through the cloud of dust swirling around the car. I appeared to be upright and unhurt. The whiteness that the dust was creating from the sun made the atmosphere glow serenely. There was silence. Then I realized what I had tried to do and I thought that maybe I was dead and that this was the dream-state between life and death. I took my hands off the wheel and peered through the dusty windows. I began to make out some forms outside.
The car was standing on the right side of the road parallel to the mountain’s side wall of earth as if I had calmly driven over and parked it there. It was no longer facing the gully edge, but was around the bend. How did I get there? How did my car get around a ninety-degree curve that I had intended not to go around? I knew I was not dead and this was no dream-state; I was very much alive. I began to shake uncontrollably. How stupid I had been. I got out of my car once the trembling had subsided somewhat. I walked over to the edge of the gully and then followed the curve back around to where I last remembered driving down. There were no skid marks, no signs of anything wrong. The trees whispered there song to me, but of life this time – no longer beckoning me to join them in the gully.
I went back to my car and slowly, very slowly drove the rest of the way back home. I was not greeted well by my family. They didn’t understand me. I never told them what I had just tried to do. It was many years before I could retell that to anyone. Time heals, so they say, and I guess they are right.

2006
The day had finally arrived. I had to go to work, but I told my students and asked them if I could leave class early that morning to pick Daniel up at Phoenix airport. They were delighted to oblige. I had called The Arizona Republic that morning and left a message on a reporter’s voice mail with a brief explanation of the story. If he were interested he could call me, but the plane was due in at eleven. Within ten minutes the reporter phoned and said that he was very interested in my story and could he and a photographer come to the airport to record the meeting and interview us both. I welcomed them both. We arranged to meet at the gate Daniel would be arriving at fifteen minutes before his landing.
I nervously waited. A tall man in his mid-thirties asked if I were Josephine. We sat down to do a quick interview. The photographer snapped away. It was now after eleven and nobody was arriving. My phone rang with an unidentified number showing.
“Hello” I answered it.
“Josephine, it’s Daniel”
“Hey where are you?”
“My flight from Sydney was delayed so I missed my flight to Phoenix from LA.”
“Oh no! When will you make it?”
“I can be there at about three.”
“Okay. I will see you then” I hung up.
I had to break the news to the reporter. I apologized. They told me not to worry and they would be back at three. They really wanted the story. They asked me if I would leave or stay. I told them I wasn’t budging an inch. I had waited thirty-three years for this moment so a few more hours would be nothing. They left.
I wandered the airport and settled down with a crossword puzzle book I bought at one of the stores. At about twelve fifteen my phone rang again. It was Daniel.
“Hey mate, I’m here!”
“You’re where, exactly?” I asked, shocked.
“In Phoenix” he said, “I’m waiting to pick up my luggage. I was able to get on an earlier flight with a different airline company.”
I was in a panic as I really wanted the photographer to capture that first meeting. I phoned the reporter and told him what had happened. I didn’t expect them to drop everything and get to the airport in time. They told me they were only ten minutes away and would meet me at the same place as before. I was hoping that Daniel would not get through baggage claim and customs before we were set up.
Fortunately, for once anyway, I was glad that customs took so long in their processing. The reporter and photographer arrived and we were able to set up. We waited what seemed an eternity. My phone rang yet again.
“Where are you?’ Daniel asked.
“I am outside the gate” I replied. “Where are you?”
“I am at the gate and I don’t see anyone resembling you. I have studied your picture and so I don’t think I missed seeing you.”
“Me too, I couldn’t miss you if I saw you and I haven’t. I know I haven’t” I answered now worried that we were in the wrong terminal.
“I am at gate seventeen C.”
“Ah,” I cried. “I am at B so just walk down the long passageway, past all the restaurants and shops” I told him, relieved that this was finally going to happen.
Then I saw him. He was tall and suntanned, with dark curly hair thickly framing a handsome face. He wore a red shirt that covered a tiny hint of beer belly. He was effortlessly wheeling a trolley piled with luggage. I told the reporter who he was and the photographer readied his camera.
“I’ll stand back and just listen in if you don’t mind” the reporter said stepping away from my side.
Daniel saw me and we just stared into each other’s eyes for those last few feet of distance that lay between us. We quickly closed the gap and hugged each other tightly. I can hardly describe my emotion. It was so intense. It was also awkward to some degree. This man before me, this man in my arms, this man was a virtual stranger. My feelings were racing every which way. I wanted to yell that I had always loved him, but I felt shamed too. I didn’t know his heart and he didn’t know mine. I could feel his awkwardness too. We were of the same blood yet this intimacy was too difficult to grasp fully. It is the strangest feeling: the wanting to hold him until your arms dropped off and yet trying to be reserved because he was a full-grown man and we were strangers. We stepped back. We settled into laughing and talking about nothing in particular. The reporter asked him for an interview which he granted.
“What are you going to call your birth mother?” the reporter asked.
“Jay-lo” he replied, “If that’s okay with her.”
“Where do you hope this will lead to?”
“To a second family that lasts forever” Daniel said as he smiled over at me.